by Tamara Gill
She could see that he hadn't thought of this, and that he felt some remorse, though he'd never admit it. His wife was more vocal.
“Oh, Cathy! I should have sent you up a tray. I was so distracted this morning that I never even thought.”
“Well, girl, perhaps you've learned your lesson,” said Mr. Prescott gruffly. “You may eat with us, of course, but you are still to remain within doors for the rest of the day.”
“Thank you, Father. I have learned my lesson.” She managed to sound contrite, though it cost her an effort. “May Priscilla call on me later today? I saw her downtown and invited her, but of course she must ask her father first.” Honestly! Grown women are treated like children here! “Can I go over to Kathy's to play?”
Mr. Prescott was now in a mood to be generous. “Certainly, she may. Miss Blake is an unexceptionable companion for you and a very well-behaved girl. You might take a leaf from her book, missie.” But now his eyes were twinkling.
“I'll try,” she said honestly. She had hopes of learning a great deal as a result of Miss Blake's visit. For starters, she now knew her last name. Steaming platters were carried in at that moment, and Kathryn's whole attention was claimed by her empty stomach.
***
Mrs. Sykes-Prescott was charmed by the new lace Kathryn had purchased earlier that day. She agreed that the cream lace would look lovely on her daughter's deep-gold day dress, so Kathryn was able to substitute sewing for embroidery during the long afternoon in the parlor. Her fingers ached by the time the tea tray was brought in at four, however, and she was glad to lay the nearly completed project aside. They were just sitting down to enjoy the cakes and tarts when Miss Blake was announced.
“Priscilla!” Kathryn exclaimed with a genuine smile. “I'm so glad you could come!” She wasn't sure what the previous degree of intimacy between Catherine and this girl had been, but she meant to increase it. She'd had ample time to think while sewing, and had hatched the beginnings of a plan to help Catherine.
Priscilla curtsied to her host and hostess before taking the chair next to Kathryn. “You have been so busy since your return from London, it seems we have hardly seen each other,” she said, implying again that they'd been good friends before Catherine's trip to England, and hadn't yet had a chance to catch up. This suited Kathryn's purposes perfectly.
“Maybe we can sit in the gardens for a while after tea and talk, since it's such a beautiful day,” Kathryn suggested. “If that's all right, Father?” she remembered to ask.
“Certainly, certainly, my girl,” he said jovially. “The gardens count as part of the house, in my thinking.” He excused himself a few moments later, saying that he needed to speak to his overseer about something.
“I have a few letters to write, myself,” added Mrs. S-P when he left. “You girls have a nice visit.” She rustled from the room.
“Would you like to go outside?” asked Priscilla almost timidly, and Kathryn realized she'd been frowning.
“Of course! It's awfully stuffy in here, anyway,” said Kathryn, turning back to her new friend with a smile. “Let's go.”
Kathryn had to suppress the urge to exclaim at the spring beauty of the gardens, since Priscilla would expect them to be old hat to her, but she looked around in appreciation at the rows of tulips and irises. “Spring is such a pretty time of year” was her only comment, and Priscilla agreed wholeheartedly. Who wouldn't in such a setting?
“So, Priscilla, tell me what's gone on in Columbia while I was away. I need to catch up on all the local gossip.”
Priscilla blinked at her in surprise. “Your sojourn in London has changed you, Cathy,” she said. “You used to hate gossip. But I've heard it is a positive passion in London society, so I shouldn't be surprised if you've caught the fever.”
“Yes, it's almost the only thing anyone talks about there,” Kathryn adlibbed. “I couldn't help getting hooked. So, tell!”
“Well, let's see, you left . . . my word! It will be two years ago this summer! I suppose a lot has happened since then. The most recent news is that Mary Mellick was to marry Jim Allston at Christmastime and jilted him at the last minute to run off with John Young. Can you imagine? Both of their fathers were furious”
She continued at some length, trying to recall every tidbit of interest over the past two years, while Kathryn listened attentively, absorbing not only names but customs, which were made very clear by this recital of their violations.
Occasionally Priscilla strayed into political news, always important to the men of this capital city, especially with the installment of South Carolina's own John C. Calhoun as Vice President only three weeks ago. Kathryn tried to absorb some of that as well, not wanting to appear ignorant about things she'd be expected to know, since she couldn’t very well Google any facts she might need.
Priscilla's knowledge of political matters wasn't broad, however, so she quickly returned to social gossip. Kathryn couldn't help thinking it was all pretty tame stuff. None of it would even have rated as news in her time, much less scandal.
Gradually, Kathryn managed to steer her friend to the topic she really wanted to hear about: Ryan James. She was able to discover, without appearing too interested, that Ryan had appeared in Columbia soon after her own supposed departure for England and that his origins were a bit of a mystery. She also, more unwillingly, learned that this mystery had fascinated the local ladies almost from the moment of his arrival and that he was rarely without feminine pursuit—or company—of some sort.
“There's just something about him. He has a way of making a lady feel special, whether she's a farm girl or a senator's wife. I've noticed it myself. I vow he knows the name of every female in Columbia, and never forgets.”
Kathryn managed to stop herself from commenting that in a town that consisted of only a few hundred houses this was not a particularly remarkable feat. “But what about the rumors?” she prompted. “There seems to be a conspiracy to keep them from me.” This seemed likely, if she were expected to marry the man.
“Oh, mostly what you'd expect about a handsome single man, only more so in Mr. James's case. You can't condemn him for being human, Cathy! But I don't believe he's actually ruined anyone respectable. He seems to limit his—well, you know—to ladies who aren't really ladies, if you know what I mean.
“Until you returned, it seemed he was being careful not to get into a situation that might lead to marriage. Oh, he loves to flirt, but he knows exactly how far he can safely go with each lady without her papa intervening. Of course, he's won three duels since he's been here, and I imagine the papas keep that in mind.” She giggled. “Mary Mellick once told me that he's been an expert shot since he was in his teens, though how Mary could have known that is beyond me. In any event, he's considered a prime catch by almost any standards.”
“I suppose that depends on your definition of 'prime,'“ retorted Kathryn. She could see why Catherine, apparent innocent that she was, might fear such a marriage. If she herself could be sure of staying here . . . No, she couldn't get involved with him. “What about the way he treats his slaves?” She had reread Catherine's diary and picked that bit out.
Priscilla sighed. “I knew that would bother you. Nor can I claim it's exaggerated, for I had it from my own maid, Polly. But the way a man treats his slaves generally has no bearing on the way he treats his wife.”
Kathryn swallowed hard. She hadn't wanted to believe that particular rumor and realized now that she had been hoping Priscilla would deny it. All the more reason to go ahead with her plan. “Priscilla,” she said urgently, “will you help me do something?”
“Of course! What is it?”
“Well, it's starting to look like I might have to marry Mr. James. My father's extremely insistent. Do you think, between us, we might sort of, well, scare the other ladies away from him? I could face it better if they weren't always after him.”
“We can't very well chase them off with sticks, can we? Besides, I rather doubt Mr. James him
self would appreciate our interference. He might withdraw his suit altogether!” Priscilla plainly considered that the ultimate catastrophe.
“No, no, we'd have to be subtle. Since rumors of his mysterious past seem to attract women like flies, maybe we can add a little vinegar to the honey pot.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean we could spread some rumors of our own—a hint here, an innuendo there. Something to make him a little less appealing.”
“Do you have any ideas?” Priscilla was looking every bit as interested as Kathryn had hoped she would.
“As a matter of fact, I do.” Kathryn had been thinking about this all afternoon and was sure she'd hit on just the thing. “Suppose we circulate a story that he's been married before. And that his first wife died under, ah, mysterious circumstances. That way we don't actually accuse him of anything, but it leaves room for doubt.”
Priscilla thought for a moment. “I suppose so. But mightn't it get Mr. James into trouble?”
“Of course not, unless it turns out to be true—in which case he deserves it. If anyone were to check it out, they'd find out he never even had a wife. But until then, it might just do the trick.” True, she couldn’t Google any facts here in 1825, but neither could anyone else, which should buy them plenty of time. With any luck, the rumors would also make the Prescotts less set on having Ryan as a son-in-law. She was determined to give Catherine a choice in the matter.
“I suppose that might work,” Priscilla admitted. “In fact, when he first arrived here there was a rumor following him—that he was a fugitive or some such thing.”
“Great! If you can think of anything like that, anything at all, weave it in. I'm afraid you're going to have to do most of this rumor spreading, Priscilla. It might look a little obvious if I say things to warn other women off.”
“Oh, I don't mind. It's for a good cause. And I can think of at least two ladies who will spread any rumor like wildfire if I so much as whisper it to them. It won't be difficult, I assure you. The Columbia ladies love to gossip as much as the London ones do!”
***
The next day at breakfast, Mr. Prescott suggested that Kathryn accompany him on his rounds of the family's plantation, The Glen. Apparently he was already willing to forget the restriction on her riding. Kathryn thought it wise to agree.
Seeing a cotton plantation was a new experience for Kathryn, and not a particularly pleasant one. It shocked her to realize that the black men sweating under the lukewarm March morning sun were slaves—actual slaves.
With a vague sense of embarrassment, she thought of the “injustices” she'd protested over the years. As part of the Animal Rights Foundation, for example, she had been strident in her opposition to animal “enslavement.” Now she was seeing the real thing. Slavery. Human beings owning other human beings. Treating them like animals. Kathryn knew she'd never be able to take ARF's rhetoric seriously again. She struggled to appear as if she'd been used to such barbarism all her life. But then—
“Father, what's that woman wearing?” she cried, completely unable to conceal her dismay at the sight of a contraption on one slave woman's back that extended up behind her for all the world like a rooftop television antenna covered with bells.
“A darky that tried to escape,” he answered, after a glance in the indicated direction. “Standard practice, so don't start on me again. I'm a kinder master than many, but I can't be letting escape attempts go unpunished. The bells merely let the overseer keep a closer eye—and ear—on her.” He chuckled at his own wit.
Riding closer, Kathryn saw that the horrid thing was made of iron and had to weigh twenty or thirty pounds. And the poor woman was expected to hoe cotton all day wearing that horrible device! Kathryn also noticed the brownish stains across the back of the slave woman's rough cotton dress and realized, with a sickening wrench, that she must have been brutally whipped for her “crime.” A surge of anger against injustice, familiar but far stronger than she'd ever felt it before, welled up inside her.
“Rather a clever idea of old man Johnson's, even you must admit, eh, Cathy?” asked Mr. Prescott jovially, noticing her interest. “Just as useful as some of those newfangled gadgets you're always pressing me to try.”
She remained silent, knowing she'd betray herself if she tried to answer him.
As he continued discussing changes and improvements, Mr. Prescott explained little, plainly expecting her to understand, and she realized that Catherine must have been well on her way to learning about the plantation. Surely that was unusual for a woman in this age? But while Mr. Prescott obviously took enormous pride in his cotton crop and expected her to do likewise, all Kathryn could see was the human misery it was built on.
As they rode back to town around noon, Kathryn realized that her visit to The Glen had been educational in ways she never would have expected. It had given her insight into not only the time period but herself, and especially the relative triviality of the causes she'd espoused. With an effort, she thrust aside her disturbing thoughts, forcing herself to look forward to Priscilla's expected visit that afternoon.
***
“Cathy, I can almost swear it is working already!” The girls were alone in the garden again, though the freshening breeze and gathering clouds warned that their time outdoors was limited. “I haven't spoken to Mr. James myself, but I saw him at the Little Theater last night and the Harkness sisters gave him the cold shoulder. They've been among his most persistent flirts!”
“Could they have heard the rumor already?”
“Oh, undoubtedly! If there is anything Mary and Eliza love more than flirting it is gossiping and Mrs. Greene, who was the first person I dropped hints to, is a bosom bow of theirs. Between the three of them, I daresay half of Columbia has heard the story by now.”
Kathryn smiled. Step one was complete, it would seem. “Are you going to the party at Leslie Allerby's tonight?” she asked. It was time to do some more work on step two.
“Of course. It will be the biggest event of the month—not counting General Lafayette's visit, of course. Everyone who matters will be there.”
Priscilla was a bit of a snob, Kathryn had noticed, but no more so than anyone else of her class and time. Probably less so than many. Besides, who was she to pass judgment? As an only daughter of a wealthy family, she'd been guilty of her share of snobbery over the years. She was only now beginning to realize that.
Her thoughts turned again to Ryan James. Had he been born rich? Almost certainly not. He'd mentioned working hard for everything he had, something Kathryn now regarded with respect, even admiration. In spite of her idealistic determination to make a difference through her charity work, she'd always had the family money to fall back on if things got rough. Working, even for good causes, had been almost a game to her.
“What do you plan to wear?” Priscilla's question was a welcome distraction, and the girls fell into an animated discussion of fashions until a rumble of thunder and a few large drops of rain interrupted them.
This conversation had been almost as valuable as the one on gossip, Kathryn thought as they ran for the back door. She now knew all about the current styles, for one thing. Priscilla had also told her that Ryan James would likely be at the Allerby do. She'd have to be at her most fascinating tonight if the second step of her plan was to be successful.
***
Kathryn surveyed her reflection with satisfaction. The dress she had chosen was blue, remarkably similar to the polyester creation she had worn before the “switch” had occurred last week—the dress Catherine had found herself in, if Kathryn's theory was correct. This dress, however, was of real silk, and its creamy blue folds shimmered beautifully as she moved. It had a tight bodice with a fairly low neckline, puffed sleeves that narrowed below the elbows and a full skirt with three layers of petticoats beneath it. Not quite Gone With the Wind, but of course this was about three decades earlier.
She had Nancy lace her corset as tight as she could stand it, r
emembering that scene from the movie. It suddenly occurred to her with a shock that Nancy was as much a slave as those workers in the fields she'd seen earlier. Somehow, she hadn't thought of her that way before, though in the back of her mind she must have known it.
“Thank you, Nancy, that's fine,” she said with a warm smile, wishing she could communicate her feelings to the woman. Instead, she turned to the mirror. The tiny waist produced by the tight corset was attractive, she had to admit. Breathing was difficult, though—no wonder ladies fainted so easily now. She turned back to Nancy. “Please tell Mother I'll be down in a few moments.” Kathryn wanted no witnesses for what she planned to do next.
When Nancy was gone, Kathryn pulled out the piece of folded paper she'd hidden in the secret recess with Catherine's diary. While watching Moses, the houseboy, shine Mr. Prescott's boots that afternoon, she'd been inspired. When his attention was called away by the cook for a few minutes, she'd quickly scooped out a tiny bit of the blacking and hurried upstairs, where she'd saved it in a scrap of paper for tonight.
Carefully, using the edge of her fingernail, she traced the merest bit of the blacking along her lash line, then tipped the lashes themselves with the color. There! She wiped her fingers down with a cloth and touched up the corners of her eyes. The effect was just what she had hoped for, emphasizing her eyes and lashes without looking made up. With any luck, not even Catherine's mother would notice.
More importantly, it gave her the added confidence she would need tonight. Her brows were naturally dark and needed no attention. Pinching her cheeks would have to substitute for blush. She would wait until they arrived to tend to that detail so it wouldn't fade before Ryan saw her. Flicking a dark curl into place with a smile, she went to join her parents downstairs.